


Two of a Kind

by seraphienus



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: AE, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, M/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphienus/pseuds/seraphienus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes beyond the truth is the acceptance of fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two of a Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers Ahead.  
> If I had a shot at the ending of TPP, I would have made it suffer so much more in order to do Venom and Miller justice.
> 
> Edited: Added amazing artwork from my love, Juonart! Find more of her amazing art on the link below (:

_No… no… this is not what I wanted!!_

Again he woke up breaking in sweat. The beads of perspiration sliding down his back in the warm quarters, so sealed shut that he wondered why they hadn’t installed windows in these metal cages. Quarters he meant, and perhaps he should suggest it the first day tomorrow. But what comes tomorrow has to wait for another four or five hours, and he wouldn’t know if he’d remember by then. So he lied in bed again, staring up at the ceiling for good measure. Counting sheep, they don’t ever work, do they? Then again what good is in counting them when you could be on field looking at them in the first place? He wished he could now, even though he couldn’t. He wondered what life had installed for him if he wasn’t defective, if he was more than what he looked.

The aggravation returned, of the coldness of reality daunting upon him: like finding a needle in a haystack, and in that moment when you find it—it was indeed, nothing more than a needle. The discovery had been a brief joy of but a multi-second, how it withered away no sooner than it was found and then it was there, in your hand, and the questions began again: why had I been searching for a needle when I already had one in my hand? Was it necessary, was it needful? What had been proven that I had two instead of one? What good had it been since I only had one fabric to weave?

He wished he hadn’t find this needle. Now he held it in his hand like a bleeding trophy, one that was piercing through his flesh as he held in his hand. If he let it down, it’d fall and disappear again. But if he had held on, it’d keep stabbing him like a reminder to remember he had two instead of one now. He could give it away, he told himself, to someone he could trust, someone who could hide and keep this needle safe and sound, away with the pain he had felt, into the space he could do without. Yet hadn’t that been the reason he had searched for this needle? Because he remembered the one he had right then wasn’t the one he had before—it had been a wee bit thicker, blunter, not as precise and sharp as the one he sewed the fabrics together with, but somehow it had always done the job perfectly nonetheless. So why had he not been satisfied with it? Why had he believed he needed what he originally had?

He stepped out of the quarters, pulling a sweater over his back since it was night after all. They were in the midst of the ocean. Was he safe here? He didn’t know, but he knew people here were family after all. The roots of suspicions and deceit have been eliminated, there should be nothing to fear anymore.

None except for himself.

“Snake.”

He looked across the deck, the source of the voice, something once so familiar now sounded so distant. The way he looked at him exempted joy and elation, it was wary yet honorary. It was the least he could do, to give him credits for what he had done, even if he had been the needle that he hadn’t wanted in the first place. But once he came close enough, something shifted in the space between them again. His lips were trembling, perhaps by anger, the sight of him, the repulse, the disgust, something bitter between them lingered and would persist till the end of time. Or his time, at least.

“Kaz.” Duty was the only thing left between them.

He kept his shades on even though it was night. _He’s probably even uncomfortable looking at him without some sort of barrier._ But who was he kidding, really. Miller had always worn his shades wherever he went, even the bathroom he once overheard the soldiers whispered. They’re professional men, Miller would never cross his line to make his life difficult. He had to support him, that was his _role_ , something Ocelot had always spoken of, and from the look of disgust in Miller’s eyes he knew the blonde wanted out. He wondered why he hadn’t left, as if something was holding him back, perhaps Mother Base he often thought. But words don’t leave his lips, for he didn’t want to offend Miller and more importantly, he knew he didn’t want Miller to leave.

The man’s devotion was pure— _had been pure_.

“If you have time to be walking around in the middle of the night, I’m sure you have time to go through some files in my office.”

He didn’t disagree and walked with him. He no longer had the courage to walk beside him, and so he fell a little back behind him. Staring at his back, how the night breeze blew against the vacant sleeve, it was a reminder of the sacrifice he was willing to make for the real deal, not him. How could he ever stand a chance against the man? He didn’t. And this was why Miller hated him. Because he wasn’t the real thing, he was an imitation. A needle who made stitches bigger than they should be, and Miller had to compromise for that.

“Do you despise me?”

But those words startled him as he closed the door behind him. Now they were back in a metal cage, again he needed to remember to talk about windows on these steel walls tomorrow. He froze at those words when Miller stood beside his own desk, tightening his grip on his crutch so much that it shook. He didn’t know what he meant, didn’t know what ‘despise’ meant to him when he had never once, in the entire of his memory, remembered him looking down on anyone, if only he could be so sure those memories were his.

“What are you talking about, Kaz?”

Before he could understand what he was trying to tell him, the blonde spun around and trotted in big steps towards him, forgoing the support of his crutch as he gripped the collar of his sweater, staring at him menacingly. His hands, as if on auto, reached out to him and held him by his waist, a gesture he wouldn’t go for in this situation but knew he had to, if he had to prove how much he cared for him. _A blunt needle or not._

“You. You…” Miller continued, “If you think I need your sympathy in this situation, then beat it. I don’t need your help, I don’t need anybody. All you need to do is to do your job.”

He didn’t know what he was trying to get at: he had _always_ been doing his job.

“Since that day, I vowed to take back what has been taken from me. Our hopes, our dreams. Mother Base, the home we were meant to build together, was the only thing that kept me going. It was the only thing that brought me closer to you, even though I couldn’t see you.”

Then he got it: he wasn’t talking to him.

“We were meant to build a future together, an Army without Borders. It was what we had believed in, a place where soldiers could call home, unite together in the battle for freedom, for all that they believed in. They believed in you, _I_ believed in you.”

But what they got in return was just an imitation, wasn’t it?

“Why? What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I part of the dream? Do you have something you couldn’t tell me? Did someone manipulate you again? Why couldn’t you tell me those words yourself? Why couldn’t you look at me in the eye and tell me so that I can stop believing, so that I truly believe you have sold the world for your soul?”

 _No Kaz_ , he wanted to say. _It’s not your fault. It’s mine._

“Have you truly tire of me? Am I no longer good enough for your future?”

_Stop it. This isn’t what I wanted._

“Is it because I’m a cripple? Is it because I can no longer shoot like the soldier I was? Is it because I’m a broken piece of scrap ready to be tossed into the ocean? Is this why you are done using me?”

_NO. KAZ, PLEASE._

He felt his heart bleed by those words. The anguish accompanied by the sorrow of abandonment, the joy of what had once been, the anger of deceit and the delusion of longing. Miller was everything at once, and everything that wasn’t anymore. He felt the disgust he had for himself, this face he adorned, the memories that were corrupted and no longer pure as they once had been. He knew he should’ve gone back to the field and finished the side ops, he knew he shouldn’t have lingered on Mother Base to continue hurting Miller.

“Why didn’t you just kill me then, back in Nicaragua? If our time meant to be was so short… if my use hadn’t even validated a use… why didn’t you just kill me then?”

And Venom could no longer take it anymore.

He pulled Miller into his arms strong and firmly, feeling his body drained from all those words as he fell to his knees with the blonde, holding him so tight that he hoped it could snap out of him, that he could remember he would never hurt him like the needle he had gripped so tightly onto. That the blood and tears he shed, was proof that it was time for him to let go, to stop the pain, to remember he could always finish his dream with what he still have, even if it wasn’t the best. That he won’t ever abandon him, not like this, not until Miller finally knew what he decided that he wanted to do.

“I’m sorry.”

Those were the first words he thought to speak. Venom kept his voice as still and as calm as he could, his embrace still strong as he resonated. Then pressing his chin onto Miller’s shoulders, he uttered those magical words again, softly, strongly.

“I’m sorry, Kaz.”

And in an instant, Miller felt tears rushed to his eyes. He hadn’t expected this, he didn’t know what he had been doing. It was then as though woken up from his trance had he realized he was on his knees, in the arms of Venom, had he struggled to break free for the lack of his self-control, of his embarrassment, of his anger and disappointment. But Venom wouldn’t let him.

“You’re not the one who should’ve died.”

Miller listened silently, biting down his lower lip.

“You gave these soldiers a home, a dream. You gave them purpose, a mission, and you made them feel accomplished no matter what they did.”

He cringed at his voice. He was desperate to not show his weakness as he did minutes ago.

“You are the one who guided these soldiers to the right future. With each and every step, you protected them no matter what wrong they could’ve done in the past. You gave them a second chance. You retaliated if anyone hurt your men. You cared for them more than anyone was capable of.”

He could almost hear the phantom voice losing its composure. It was slowly tearing itself apart.

“You’re not just a face. You’re not just a mascot.”

And then it finally daunted on him: the only one raveling in pain wasn’t just him.

“You’re not a tool. You’re not a mission. You’re not a target board. You’re just you—Kazuhira Miller, the man who built Mother Base even without the limbs to spare.”

“Stop it.” Miller croaked weakly, “Stop saying that.”

“And I—” Venom paused, took a deep breath, and let pain lacerated his words for the first time, “I was the one who should’ve died.”

“No.”

With the remaining energy he had left after being consumed in all that silent suffering he kept inside him, Miller found courage, a weird sense of responsibility and sympathy towards the face that he thought he was supposed to hate. That there was an urge, undeniably a form of desire, to hold the man in front of him in this instance. In spite all the fury he had felt since he discovered the truth, in this very moment he found the will to look beyond his face and into the soul he possessed, that very essence that struck Miller to now understand why his actions had always deviated from his, with his own set of reasoning, and his own philosophy.

_His very own Legacy._

“Don’t say that,” Miller whispered. He didn’t hear any sobbing or mumbling, so he assumed he was fine though broken somewhere that he too knew. “Listen to me.”

Once parted from the embrace, he rested his forehead against Venom’s, precariously avoiding the shrapnel on his forehead, the symbol in sight to remind him that this man wasn’t the one who sold the world.

“You are Big Boss,” as much as those words cringed him, “but what is Big Boss other than a title bestowed to the leader of Mother Base?

“You may have his face, his voice, even his skills, but in here,” and Miller pressed his palm over Venom’s chest, “In here, you’re you. Your actions are your own.”

And then he curled his hand into a fist and again pressed it against him, “You’re Big Boss. And Diamond Dogs is your home.”

  
_(A/N: such precious Art drawn, mastered & contributed by _[_Juonart_](http://juonart.tumblr.com/) ❤)

Venom was speechless, the swelling in his heart had been so great that he felt the tears rushed to his eyes. It was deliberate, intense and he knew he wouldn’t know what he could’ve done without Miller by his side this entire time. The entirety of his being was only acknowledged by Miller, his persistence as a soul of his own: not a tool, not a decoy, but a man of his own mind. He knew the importance of Big Boss to Miller and he would never abuse his privilege had he known how much it would break the man. But this moment where Miller had begun to accept his existence, he knew he couldn’t deny those feelings he’s always had for the man. It wasn’t feelings that succeeded through hypnotherapy or fragments of memories, neither coded in genetics.

It was solid evidenced in his beating heart. His very own soul.

And with his warm hand, he took those shades off and tipped Miller’s jaw up towards him, closed his eyes and pressed his scarred lips over the blonde’s soft ones. He half expected some strong retaliation, a shove or even a fist thrown across his face but none came. So out of curiosity he had to look, he had to see what Miller felt. And so he did.

A single fall of tears sliding down his closed eyes, his lips shaking but certain against his. In this moment he didn’t care if he was real or a phantom to Miller. At least in this moment, he knew it was his.

Miller knew what he had lost—the reality of everything burning to the ground. But at least they were two of a kind, and this passion won't go out as a dying flame. Phantom or not, it no longer matters. What mattered most was to finish that fabric he had begun with, because they were cut from the same cloth in reality. And they were patched together for the same purpose.

“I’ll finish what _we_ started.” Venom spoke once their lips parted. “I’ll shape the future into our vision. Your vision, your dreams.”

To which Miller replied, unwavering, “And you’re Big Boss. I’ll follow you to the pits of Hell and back, to the Heaven that only we belong.”


End file.
